Rock Bottom (The Handler Series Book 1)

by Angie M. Brashears

  Faint stubble scratches between my thighs and I’m squirming between the sheets. I look down and he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Breathless, I stare into his face. He moves like a Chinese animal. Mystified I ask. “Do you know Karate?”

  For some reason his beautiful smile makes me cry. So open like he’s my spirit animal, a red panda maybe. I just want to eat him up, but I settle for roaming hands through his dragon kissed locks.

  I’m enthralled by the soft sensual movements of the head between my legs. I like the way he keeps his eyes open, gazing with lust at my junk as he kisses it. Oh, yes…oh, I like that too. The careful feathering, he does with his tongue. “Just like that, don’t fucking stop!”

  His fingertips dig into the outside of my thighs and I climax like it’s the year of the dragon.

  I love the way he rests his cheek on my thigh, watching how his careful caresses make me quiver.

  “Aftershocks. Nice. Listen, do you have a card or something. I’d like to see you again,” I whisper.

  Round two starts when the pink salt shaker emerges. “Oh, that’s cute! Is it designer?” I ask, ready to spend some money.

  He looks from me to the condiment bottle and shrugs.

  “Good enough for me,” I say and haul myself up using the hem on the side of the mattress. Who knows where the sheets went. I look back, hoping for a shove from All American, but he’s no help. Passed out and snoring, he kind of looks like my dad.

  How did I not see that before?

  I’m a little unsteady, close to wobbly as I follow Kwan into the bathroom. Turns out he plays bass, same as me. Told him I might be able to hook him up with something, let him mess around with my guitar, and that’s when he pulled out the good stuff. Everything’s blurry as I look down at the rails of drugs I lined up on the marble sink top.

  “I kind of went way outside of the lines. Do you want to redo them?” I ask, holding him the blade.

  “No, they’re fine. Hey, how about a little of the ancient Chinese secret?” He asks.

  “Good one,” I say with a snort, because it makes me think of a very old laundry commercial.

  “Well done?” He asks. Once I nod, he gives the drugs a liberal seasoning. Drugs on top of drugs. Nothing to see here folks.

  "Yes, please," my words sound more like I'm begging.

  The white tangles with the pink. “Did you know I used to play Candy Cane on Whimsy High?” I ask through chattering teeth. It’s freezing in here.

  “And?” He asks.

  “Nothing. Just felt like something to say.” My voice sounds like it’s holding back tears. It sounds like I’m over me. A little sick of my bullshit, a used car. Expired milk, overdue library books. I’m a rerun, stuck on repeat, a has-been, a wash-up, a poser, a faker and the time has come.

  “You done with that?” He asks and points to my hand.

  I look down at the jagged lines on my wrist. As jagged as the rails of coke.

  “Oh…God. Didn’t know I still had that, sorry.” I say and fling the razorblade into the sink. A thin line of blood smears as it slides down the porcelain side. “Thanks for looking out for me,” I whisper.

  “You cold?” He asks and hugs me to his icy chest.

  But I break away. I want to feel every inch of fear. My skin breaks out in a cold sweat, it’s here. I’ve been riding in the backseat my whole life, time to move to the front.

  The reason people aren’t content to sit still in rehab and get better? This right here is ground zero. The danger level that’s raised each time I reach the point of no return.

  Will she or won’t she?

  She will. I raise the rolled hundred in salute. “Bonsai,” I say and snort more than my fair share.

  Plain, old missionary just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. I need lights, camera, and a side of danger with my sex now, just to get off.

  Drugs are my beard. A careful disguise that overshadows all else. Even these guys, if asked would remember the sexathon with fondness, but the drugs? “She’s a machine!” And I always live up to my cover story. Which may or may not be leading to an actual raging addiction.

  But it’s worth it.

  As a singer it’s excepted, even acceptable, almost forgivable to stumble around out of my mind. I think most of America is immune to my shenanigans by now, which is why it’s all I’ll admit too.

  The two on one tomfoolery? Nope. You won’t hear about it from me.

  Because it’s much easier to get work in my field as a drug addict. Just look at what happened to Duchovny when he came out as a sex addict. Which was hot by the way, but my point? The X Files tanked.

  And bonus, when everyone thinks you’re an addict? You get to show up late, take as many “bathroom breaks” as needed and when I do eventually disappear? No problem, that’s just our star, taking a little ‘Nova’ time.

  So yeah. I’m not saying shit.

  If I did, I may as well sew an ‘S’ on all my concert shirts, because I’ll be branded a sloot.

  Something lurid comes to mind. Shot in grainy black and white, a still from my spank bank titled “Fetish” but the fog settles in. A blow-horn bleats in my imagination as a chilly haze envelops me. I’m numb from the toes up.

  Somewhere, in these clouds, my head floats. Tethered to my body by a neon string that jitters like a fish on the line.

  For once, too numb to care. I think I yelled. “Don’t lose it!”

  But I’m distracted by the body lying on the ground, dancing its way through the difficult steps of an overdose.

  This moment, suspended between two worlds, is what an experimenter like me has been searching for my entire life.

  Will she or won’t she take the next breath?

  When the body on the floor doesn’t answer, I breathe for it. Forcing it. You know it’s bad when you must remind your own body to breathe. In and out. In and out. It’s the beat my limbs flail too. This is what I’ve been chasing right here, I think, feeling another wave of shakes tear through my body. Even in the penthouse, it still smells like a dingy subway stall down here on the cold marble tile. Next to the toilet.

  I feel seasick, like I’m lying in a rocking boat, but it’s only my mind that moves.

  Staying or going?

  You don’t have to go, but you can’t stay here.

  The room narrows, until it’s just me and a red laser beam of light. When it winks white, I’m relieved, wasn’t such a bad girl after all.

  The pure white beacon of light begins to move away. Slowly, it seems to look back every step and beckon to me.

  Please let someone have the balls to play, Pop Goes the Weasel at my funeral.

  My spirit takes a tentative step forward and I feel shaken from the dryer clean.

  Before the blackness becomes my reality, I hear the salty voice of my Ancient Chinese secret. “Dude stop going through her purse and come help me. We can’t just leave her.”

  “Sure, we can. I’ve got that court thing in Reno next week. No way I’m getting tangled up in this.”

  And I’m left alone in the dark to wonder…which way they went.

  ****

  News Flash

  “Unapologetic as ever, NovaKain, skipped out on the Grammy festivities to hole up in the penthouse of The Staple. Two little birdies told us it was a party like no other, but what do we expect? She is everyone’s favorite delinquent.

  Sadly, no one could’ve expected the video compilation that accompanied her nomination to be her eulogy. As her name was read to a standing ovation. She overdosed on a cold, but expensive marble floor.

  Everyone here at Sell Out is pulling for you, NovaKain, but we still feel the need to ask. Where are the people that are supposed to be looking out for you?

  On the supposed demise of NovaKain, Hollywood had this to say.

  I wonder if I’m still the beneficiary in her will. -Rusty, the ex

  I’m sure there were good times in there, it’s all kind of a blur. Like when you get your tooth fill
ed. That dead feeling. I just feel dead inside. – Kiki Boloba, off and on-again assistant.

  In a fit of drunken tomfoolery, she punched my dog. I have nothing else to say. -Paris

  Maybe now I’ll get my stuff back and BTW, she never called. -Lindsey

  No comment. -Jerry Whims, Head of Whimsy Records

  If that’s not Rock N Roll, I don’t know what the fuck is. -Lemy, Rock God

  Chapter 7

  Shamus Malone

  Today I bury my father.

  Which is only fitting, since it was me, who killed him. My brother Justice would say, ‘You didn’t stick a funnel down his throat and pour the liquor in.’ No, but I enabled him just the same.

  To some, his passing may have been an utter shock, hell, half the people in this auditorium would tell you just that. But those who knew him, like the people in the back? The ones that got a little something extra in their Christmas envelopes every year?

  Those in the know would say it was just a matter of time until he passed out in his favorite chair, lit cigarette dangling between his fingers and set the whole casino ablaze. One misplaced step in a slippery shower stall away from a broken neck. Whatever the calamity or misadventure-an awkward fall down some stairs, perhaps choking in his sleep-my father had been working hard to die “by accident” since my mother left him for his own brother, too many years ago.

  I just loved him enough to get out of his way and let it happen.

  Instead of building him up, maybe finding him a meeting, I was the one that encouraged the drinking. If the bottom of a Jameson bottle was the only place my dad could find solace, then I was going to buy him two.

  I don’t regret it. Misguided as it was, it was my attempt at giving the poor sap a moment of happiness.

  Stepping out of the wings, I peer around the brocade curtain in search of my brother and immediately wish I hadn’t. Every set of eyes in the Sammy Davis Auditorium turn toward me and the two courage shots Justice talked me into, boil in my stomach. Waiting for my stomach to settle does no good, there’s an ulcer with my dad’s name on it leading the revolt, so it’s best to just get moving. With two long strides, I step to the oak podium.

  The floor seats are overflowing to standing room only. Same as every other show performed in this venue, the money sits up front and Uncle Tommy is front row center. I almost didn’t recognize him without his velour tracksuit. Today, as a show of respect, he’s outfitted in Armani to bury his brother. It looks like all the ex-communicated Malones-exiled to California-flew in for this somber occasion.

  Which is amazing since I couldn’t get a handful to come visit when he was alive. Please don’t tell me they all flew in on our families’ private jet.

  The staff, so like family, stuck back in the cheap seats. The lights are too bright to see them, but I feel their love and support just the same.

  Leaning against the wall are watchful men with side holsters. It’s a wary watch, like someone might pull out a tommy gun and splatter bullets at any second.

  My family gets that a lot.

  Not because of the casino, it’s the other business that draws the unwanted attention.

  Mobsters and casinos go hand and hand. At least, they did, back in the old days. And my dad always had a perverse fascination with the mob. Could have been why he bought the casino. To attract the mob. One mobster in particular, my uncle. He talked his older brother up and down, to anyone that would listen, until he drove my mother right into my uncle’s arms.

  Both men got older, but it was my dad who really showed his age.

  He was like one of those hallmark commercials where the old guy waits by the window for the visit that never comes.

  Mobsters get old, I want to tell him. Between the gout and the diabetes, they don’t travel so much. But it wouldn’t have made a difference.

  I lean forward and speak into the mic. “Thanks for showing up today.”

  Barely above a mumble, my voice sounds gruff, with a hitch I can’t get rid of.

  I’m afforded just a moment of silence before restless stirrings arise from the audience.

  But I’m not ready.

  On either side of me, a sea of wreaths pour off the stage and trickles down the carpeted stairs. I’m flanked by flowers, wrapped in condolences but still, I feel hollow. The cloying perfume does nothing to lift my spirits as my eye travels to the Titanium casket.

  Open?

  Not on your life.

  Closed, it had to be closed.

  As close to the casket as it can get sits a monstrosity of a wreath. If it were possible, I’m sure Uncle Tommy would’ve stood it on top. Twice the size of the others, it’s a horseshoe covered in four leaf clovers.

  Festooned with a banner which does not say to my loving brother, in memory or any of the other bullshit lines that sell condolence cards. No, this one’s from Uncle Tommy, and the Kelly-green lettering simply states the last cold, hard fact. ‘Out of luck.’

  Aren’t we all?

  My father taught me well. As a show of respect, I give my uncle the first nod before I begin. “My dad lived life his own way. He went out of this world in the same way. He was hit by a bus on Frank Sinatra Avenue. Bystanders from near and far had one thing to say. ‘That bus took a mighty long time to stop.”

  Uneasy titters fall flat as I take a sip from the cup that’s on the podium. Bourbon, straight up.

  I raise the cup.

  “Cheers,” I say to the people in the back.

  No one moves. So quiet you could hear a leprechaun fart. But it’s the Malones, recently relocated to Los Angeles, so it doesn’t stay quiet for long. I sip my drink while they get it all out.

  He was a tough old bastard.

  I’m surprised that bus can still drive.

  Shamus, how could you?

  As I wait for the catcalls to die down, I try to remember the speech I’d prepared on the way down. How to Say Fuck you tactfully.

  Drink my way through the eulogy. Check.

  I take a breath and look right at my uncle. “There was nothing my dad loved more than you, Uncle Tommy and I do too. But there’s no more free. It’s time we all start paying our tabs. While you’re here, make sure to stop by the Joey Bishop Buffet. Crab legs are half off. Take in the sights, gamble, but always remember, this is my home, and I like to run everything on the up and up. While you’re here, I ask that you respect my wishes. Hope you enjoy your complimentary rooms and drinks. Be out by tomorrow.

  Justice winces and shakes his head. Just once, but if Justice says I’m over the top. Then I’m way over.

  Someone in the back says. “What the fuck?”

  Another asks. “He’s not talking about the free chips, is he?”

  ‘That’s what comps means ya idiot.’

  My uncle’s been grinning the whole time. When I’ve had my say, he holds up a hand. “If my nephew wants to do it alone, who are we to stop him.”

  Only when my chest is clear, do I dare look at my mother. With a small smile I nod her way. Glad to see you finally made it. She holds her head high as she folds her tiny hand into my uncles. She finally got the gangster my father always raved about. Good Job, Mom.

  Looking beautiful in the smart, wool dress with matching jacket. Worn at every family event, since the very first. The wedding that started it all, when she married my father, she must keep it under ice, it looks exactly the same as it did at my grandfather’s funeral, six years ago.

  Why should dad’s funeral be any different?

  If she were speaking to me, it would be with that smug pride she always oozes.

  Still fits, she’d beam.

  With her sassy gray bob and red lipstick. Always with a telltale smudge on the bottom lip. My mother takes her Vodka Sour through a straw.

  Who cares if she hasn’t talked to me since she found out I got everything, I’m used to it. In a family of men, she’s the Precious and I’m still talking to her.

  Smiling down, I say. “You look amazing in your Jackie-O,
mom.”

  She clucks, shakes her head, but the whole time, stifles a smile.

  “You’ll be talking to me before this is over, I guarantee it. I love you, mom. That’s all I wanted to say. Just in case one of us gets run over by a bus.”

  A collective “Shamus” fills the air, but it’s my mother that speaks the loudest. Too much?

  She stands and walks to the end of the pew.

  Moving with her, I pass the podium and jostle one wreath.

  It jostles two friends and so on.

  I don’t even try to avert the tragedy, just maneuver through the flimsy stands, arms held wide, on my way to mom.

  At the bottom of the stairs, hopeful, I wait. My eyes blur with tears when she gets to the end of her pew, but I don’t blink them away. I need to see which way she’ll go. My arms shake as I brush my wet cheek on my shoulder. Waiting, I offer a tentative smile, just in case.

  I don’t even rate a look?

  My arms drop in defeat, but my eyes never leave her. Without even a look my way, she turns toward the exit, like I’m not even here. I didn’t know why I thought my dad’s funeral would trigger her maternal instincts.

  I’m still waiting for a sorry or look what a mess I made out of your father. Just the blame game and her personal mantra on repeat. It’s always a coin flip whether she’ll be speaking to me or not and if she is, it’s usually just to repeat her personal mantra. ‘Everyone chose sides, it’s just unfortunate that my own son didn’t choose mine.’ Breezy, dare I say bitchy, that one line should be listed in her bio, on Facebook.

  Like I had a choice.

  Despite the cold shoulder and bad lipstick, she’s taught me every hangover cure I know and she’s mom. I love everything about her, including the neglect.

  But she’s not speaking to me.

  Who knows how long I would’ve stood there, if Justice hadn’t stood up, and taken me in a gruff hug. My little brother, who dropped what he was doing, back in LA to be by my side. We might have different dad’s but he’s family, just the same.

  “Love you, bro,” I say.